like a loaded weapon
by Ivory Muse
Summary: Slashing your tires is the closest he'll ever get to saying he loves you, but you just can't walk away. — Tim/Dallas.


notes: _warning for some terrible language (it's tim and dallas, what did y'all expect), some very unhealthy sex (again, guys, it's tim and dallas), and some period-typical homophobia the author definitely doesn't endorse._

* * *

"You miserable goddamn cocksucker."

"Now, now, Timmy, if you want me to suck your cock, you're gonna have to ask nicer than that." His smirk is awful, just begging you to smack it off his face, and then he takes another swallow from the bottle faster than you can blink. Here's a guy drinking alone on a Friday night, in some shithole room Buck jacks up the rent on every week, and he still looks down at you like he's a king. Makes you want to puke— or maybe that's just the sick, dizzy churning in your stomach whenever you get a decent glimpse of him.

You're not in the mood for his games, and he always has a million. "You slashed my fucking _tires_ ," you hiss, getting so close you can smell the bourbon coming off him in waves. "Who does that? What was your mother on when she was pregnant with you?"

"Heroin," he says, his eyes narrowing. "Don't talk shit about my mother, Shepard, you ain't got a leg to stand on. How are you so damn sure it was me?"

"Let's see— 'cause Curly says he caught you in the act, first of all, and I got no reason to believe he'd lie to his own brother. Second of all, 'cause there ain't one other motherfucker in the entire state of Oklahoma dumb enough to slash _my_ tires."

"That's the second time you've insulted my mother," he says, "and I don't think you'd like to do it a third time." He sets the bottle aside— it's already half-empty, but you wouldn't guess from looking at him. If the lucky bastard inherited one thing, it was the ability to hold his liquor. "Fine, officer, I confess. It _was_ me. So what?"

You strike too quick for even his lightning reflexes and shove him down onto the bed, pinning him by the arms— he spits in your face with an angry joy, and you drive your elbow into his ribs so hard you hear something crack. "Why'd you do it?" you demand as he grimaces in pain. "You owe me that much. Tell me why you did it."

He wrenches free, and then your field of vision is a mess of heat and pain when his fist collides with your eye, sending you reeling backwards. "Who's that bitch you keep haulin' around?" he asks as you prod the bruising skin. "Oh, right, _Karen_. She know you're a queer yet? What'd you say when she lay down in the backseat and you couldn't get it up?"

"I got it up," you lie, your cheeks hot— just answering that was an insult to your dignity. "Gave it to her good and hard, too. Almost as good as I gave it to Sylvia."

"Hope she passed the clap on to you, then. Fucking slut." He flops backwards, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of winter-pale skin. You make yourself look away. "Shep, you know, you can just have _me_ if you ask real nice. You don't have to keep jerkin' all these pretty blonde girls around."

"I get it, now." You smile deep and ugly, desperately trying to regain the upper hand, but fighting with Dallas is like wrestling an octopus— unpredictable, and it always leaves you feeling slimy. "Can't believe I didn't figure it out before, 'cause you been tryin' to tell me in your own special way. You're jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Just like a broad," you go on, compulsively cruel. _"'Oh, Tim, why can't you ever call me back? Tim, why don't you take me out no more? Tim, did I really see you with another girl—'"_

You think he's moving to strike you again and you clench your fists, ready to beat his head in, when instead he pulls you down by the collar, practically on top of him, and kisses you. Four Roses and blood and desperation. It's not the worst taste in the world. "Shut up an' do something better with your mouth," he says as you propel yourself upright.

"I told you this was over, you goddamn pervert." Shit. Shit. _Shit_. And now you're _hard_ , achingly so, your body betraying every inch of your rational mind.

"What's the matter?" he asks sweetly enough to make an angel cry. "Gonna go tell the father all about this at confession? 'Cause I think carjacking and dealing dope are bigger sins to get off your plate, personally, but don't let me tell you how to run your life."

"You're an animal," you spit, pacing back and forth. "You're fucking _feral_ , that's what's wrong with you. Your old man should've licked you more often 'stead of lettin' the streets raise you; then you might've turned out halfway normal."

"Not sure how to break it to you, altar boy, but humans ain't nothin' more than animals. We fuck and we fight. The end." He leans back on his elbows, all smug.

"I'm serious," you say, your voice cracking on the words. "They oughta put you in the bin and give you electric shocks."

"Maybe we can bunk together." He strides over to you, his eyes wild and glossy from too much booze and not enough sleep; a jolt runs down your spine. "Quit fucking with me. You didn't come to my room in the middle of the night to pummel me over some shitty tires."

You come so close to breaking his nose and getting the hell out of Dodge, but instead you start fumbling with the zipper on your jeans, nearly breaking it in your haste, because if the universe has one constant, it's that Dallas Winston always gets what he wants. Your breath's all short and rapid, like the first time you stole a car and almost drove over the side of a bridge, like the first time you put a needle inside the crook of your arm and shot up— things you can't stop until they're finished. He watches you, and he smirks, and then he's naked from the waist up before you can even process what's happening.

(No, you're not a queer, you repeat more fervently than you ever recited the Lord's prayer. It's just sex. It's just a fuck. You just want to experiment a little, you're just lonely and horny and here's a warm body available— one that you're dead sure won't ever talk. Mutually assured destruction.)

"You're still payin' for the tires, you bastard," you command hoarsely, yanking him closer to you by the hair and shoving your tongue down his throat. Every last fucking cent, you swear to God, though you really hope He's not looking right now.

Dallas doesn't say anything. Not one word. Instead he wraps his hand around your cock, and then the whole world goes to static, and you know you're done for.


End file.
